


the failings of the human memory

by peppermintcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:46:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3340721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintcas/pseuds/peppermintcas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’re you writing?” he asks, now, standing at the end of Cas’ bed. Cas is smudging pencil all across the paper, and he keeps stopping to shake out his hands. There is a graphite stain on his cheekbone, and his fingertips are darkened with pencil lead; Dean thinks about going to him and wiping it off, thinks about cradling his cheek, kissing him. He thinks about Cas’ pencil smudged hands leaving dusty prints on his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the failings of the human memory

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://grandpadean.tumblr.com/post/110653930513/castiel-freshly-fallen-realizing-that-his-memory) Tumblr post. Oops.

“It’s going to be okay,” Dean had said, cradling Cas’ face, his blue eyes so wide, so close. “It’s going to be—Cas, we’ll be okay, I swear.”

Cas had gasped, shuddered, his cheeks going pale; he closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, they were white.

No—not white, not even blinding white. There weren’t enough colors in this world to describe it. It was the entire fucking rainbow; it was nothing, it was a void; and then it was blue, blue enough for Dean to get sucked in, his body burning, the Mark shrieking, and then—

—and then.

\--

Cas is human, and Dean is okay.

The Mark is—not quite gone, but fading from his arm. From history, hopefully. It’s an inky splotch of red against the paleness of Dean’s forearm now, the welt slowly being erased, like a bruise healing. He feels better every day. His hands don’t shake as much. Once in a while, he glances towards the whiskey sitting on the kitchen counter and turns away.

He goes to Cas, instead, who’s usually sitting at a table or on his bed, absently scribbling on old receipts or unused papers, writing. Always writing. It’s becoming a—a _thing_ , often enough for Dean to become a little bit worried—he’s afraid Cas is foregoing sleep.

“What’re you writing?” he asks, now, standing at the end of Cas’ bed. Cas is smudging pencil all across the paper, and he keeps stopping to shake out his hands. There is a graphite stain on his cheekbone, and his fingertips are darkened with pencil lead; Dean thinks about going to him and wiping it off, thinks about cradling his cheek, kissing him. He thinks about Cas’ pencil smudged hands leaving dusty prints on his skin. He stays at the end of the bed. He’s still uncertain about this new _thing_ between them, the wordless intimacy they have together; he settles for curling his fingers around Cas’ ankle instead.

Cas glances up at him, and his eyes soften. “I’m writing about—civilizations,” he says, his eyes far away, seeing something Dean can’t. “Not from Earth, though. Light-years away.” He smiles. “Can you imagine?”

“I’m human, man,” Dean says, smiling back. “Can you—I dunno, describe it?”

Cas pats the bed beside him, and Dean toes off his shoes and thumps down beside him. “Alright, go.”

Cas slouches down into the mess of pillows behind him, rests his head back on the headboard, and looks down at where Dean’s gazing back up at him. All of his movements are so unbearably _human_ now, from the way he fidgets to the way he sits: shoulders no longer quite so rigid, his fingers never really still. “There’s another planet. It’s light-years away, but it’s remarkably like yours. Slightly bigger, perhaps.” He makes a wobbling hand motion, shrugs. “And a little further from its sun, so it’s not as bright as you have here; it’s in a perpetual dusk during its daytime.”

“Cool,” Dean mumbles, eyes closing. He yawns. God, he’s tired; Cas says his body is healing itself, mending its systems, but the constant drowsiness is a really bad side effect, especially if they plan to go on hunts anytime soon. He shifts closer, feeling the heat from Cas’ body. The guy’s like a furnace, now that he’s human. “Longer days, too?”

Cas nods, lifting his hand to rest it gently in Dean’s hair. They move together like this now, instinctive shifting, little touches, closer and closer and closer. Dean settles himself so that he’s got his head on Cas’ chest, his arm thrown over Cas’ waist, pulling him down so that Cas is leaning into Dean’s body and vice versa; Cas hums, folds his crumpled paper one-handed and leaves it dangling loosely by his fingertips. “Much longer. The species there, the intelligent life, they aren’t like you—they don’t need as much sleep. They can forego it much longer than you can without getting tired. All the species there are adapted to the longer days and dimmer sunlight. The plants—they’re beautiful, all in shades of red and orange and gold instead of green, because they don’t pick up as much light. As if it was—” Cas pauses, thinking. “Just imagine the Amazon, but in shades of red instead of green.”

Dean tries, but he can’t—all he can picture is autumn leaves and bare trees, but he doesn’t think that’s what Cas is going for here. He’s not quite sure what autumn in the Amazon would look like, anyway. He eases the paper from Cas’ grasp. There are words scrawled everywhere, like a stream of consciousness instead of coherent writing; in the margins, there are doodles in red and orange colored pencil, and they look like flames instead of the plants they’re supposed to be. “You know what, Cas?” he says, setting the paper back on Cas’ stomach. “You can use my laptop next time. Then you can actually read what you’ve written. Or I could scrounge up an unused journal—the Men of Letters had tons in storage.”

 “I’d appreciate it,” Cas says. His fingers are carding through Dean’s hair, warm and gentle and soft. “I’m just—” He hesitates. “I’m afraid of forgetting.”

Dean tips his head up to look up at Cas, who suddenly looks as if he’s Atlas, and the weight of the world is dropping back onto his shoulders; his shoulders are slumped, his eyes weary. Not for the first time, Dean notes the tiredness in the set of his face, in the bags under his eyes. He reaches up, palms Cas’ jaw. “Hey,” he says, gentle, “Cas,” and draws him down for a kiss.

It’s nothing but a brush of lips and fleeting comfort, but Cas sighs against him, slides downwards so that they’re more or less level with each other, with Dean’s face tucked into the crook of his shoulder. They shift again, curling onto their sides, facing each other. “I don’t want to forget,” Cas says, his voice muffled in the covers. “I don’t want to forget how the sun shone on that world light-years away, or the color of the plants, or the massive cities. The failings of the human memory—” he draws breath, shuddering, and Dean curves a palm over Cas’ shoulder—“your memories are—fleeting, at best, compared to what an angel’s would be. My human mind can only hold so much. I’m—I’m losing things, even now, you know. The complete silence of space. When the first flower on this world bloomed. The sound of my brothers’ voices. The color of your soul, the first time I saw it in Hell. It’s all disappearing from my mind, and it terrifies me.” Cas laughs, but it’s tired. “I was an angel for— _millennia_. I had fate, and destiny, and the whole of the _cosmos_ at my fingertips, and now I’m human. I feel as if I’ve lost a part of myself, Dean. I—I _have_ lost a part of myself. I don’t think I can afford to lose any more.” _I don’t think I have enough to spare_ is only implied, but Dean can hear it just fine anyway.

Dean tucks his chin over Cas’ mess of dark hair, presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Tell me, then,” he suggests, drawing back just enough to meet Cas’ eyes. “Talk to me. I’ll remember for you. And then you can write it down later, all the stuff you told me. You’re gonna lose memories, Cas. It’s part of being human, and it’s shitty and I’m sorry, but you’ll be okay.” He works his fingers into Cas’ hair, draws them both in until their foreheads are resting against each other. Cas gazes at him, eyes soft with exhaustion and sadness and maybe a little bit of hope. “Tell me.”

That night, Dean will fall asleep to words spilling from Cas’ mouth, histories and tragedies and stories of birth and death and life, worlds and stars and galaxies blooming into existence, the start of infinity, and Dean will remember it all.

They will be okay.


End file.
